


Wishbone

by AnnabelleRowan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sebastian Moran, Post Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Notes, mormor, non-graphic mention of bj, non-graphic mentions of killing/dying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 11:06:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnabelleRowan/pseuds/AnnabelleRowan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A note, a lover, and a psychopaths club that was never meant to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishbone

Found in a hotel room, under an empty glass:

 

The first act and the second, two lovers, three lovers and a death, death alone, and then sunlight, new life, you're dead but the world didn't even notice, it just moved on, it always just moves on.

  
I’m waiting in our flat, you bastard, you said you'd come home, you smiled and we both knew you're lying, we both knew it was over, you left me for a man and a man for a death, you cheated on me and he cheated on her, poor, poor John, bought him a drink yesterday, you could've just killed him, tell me to do it, if I had time I would've done it, you died and I didn't, Sherlock didn't but John did.

  
Always be the smartest guy in the room, and we were all out played by the great Sherlock Holmes, damned Sherlock Holmes, do you know that sometimes I get so angry, so ridiculous that I wish I met him first, and you met John, and you killed John, and Sherlock and I killed you?  
If it wasn't for me there would be no pool you idiot, you called him doofus and just look at you, love is death, in the end we all die from it, Irene had a little crush and it damn well CRUSHED her, she lost her head over a boy, oh the irony, you are all that's left in the end.  
It's sad, ugly, the way our paths crossed, the way we fell for each other, dominant figures, each and every one of us, military and police and royalty, we should’ve formed a club, ruled the world, but we killed each other instead.

  
Irene is dead, I'm dead and you're dead and Sherlock Holmes wins in the end, he always does, I hope John never forgives him for this, but he will, he'll be swept of his feet, little girl he is, he was worse than me; I nearly killed a man for you when we first met, he truly killed one for Sherlock and we both did it for the same reason, you can't be out there killing tigers and then come back and play tea party with dolls all afternoon, morning, midday, midnight, it never ends, time is like water here and there it was like sand, falling between your fingers, lost, lost and gone, never clung to you, never made you feel like you're drowning.

  
I never respected a woman before, did you know, killed my own mother when she gave me life, but Irene was something special, something different, I dreamed of her once – she was standing in front of a tiger, naked, she didn't even have a whip in her hand and the tiger behaved like a fucking kitty, purred, I never heard a tiger purr, not once in my life, I saw it eat a man alive, but not purr, and you had her killed and she escaped, fooled you, fooled you twice actually, saved Sherlock for the same reason you killed yourself – she was fascinated, wanted to examine him properly, play him, and the best part, best bloody part is she succeeded, she succeeded in everything, even died on her own conditions, great Sherlock Holmes and he was fooled by The Woman.

  
Sometimes I think that things would've played the best for everyone if she had got to Sherlock first, me and John found each other, and then the four of us smoked you out from hiding and killed you, four times in a row, all together, it would've been such a lovely thing.

  
I don't regret it, you bloody fuck, you're rooting somewhere and I can still hear your voice, mocking „oh what happened to not looking back, Seb, are you breaking your own rules now, my, my, wouldn’t that be just terrible“

  
I’m just thinking it through, I never worked for logistics, I was never trained as tactician, I was a weapon, a knife, a gun, bare hands, whatever they needed, used me and then threw me away, threw me in your way, it takes a psychopath to know a psychopath, that club of ours this could’ve been his motto, silly Sherlock calling himself a sociopath just cause he though he never killed anyone, the rules didn't apply to him.

  
Remember that the first time Irene called for us to help her with a body? She was so collected, so cold, she said she had forgotten herself, had played too hard, and then later, in our flat, she drank a whole bottle of scotch and laughed while we fucked in the next room, she laughed and then you started laughing and I followed, your cock in my mouth, I almost choked and that made you laugh even more and we played “guess what Sherlock and John are doing now” and we went to check on them, all three of us, could’ve just put a bloody neon sign „you're being stalked“ but they were fighting over milk and it was so hilarious, that moment of balance in the world, lunatics killing and fucking and disposing of a body and lunatics doing grocery shopping, you turned around, there were tears in your eyes, you were so beautiful and you asked „Seb do we have any milk“ and there was a bomb in our fridge, a grenade in the freezer, nine kinds of poison and a bottle of champagne in the door and we laughed even harder.

  
You don't know, but later, over a smoke, Irene told me that she saw it, a clear path for us, and she was right, she said – they are fighting over milk, and they will still be doing it after the rest of us are dead, you know that right?

  
And I just looked at her, I didn't understand then, I understand now while I'm waiting for him to get me, I'm tired of running, you wanted him dead, said he's the first bright thing that happened in your life, and I wasn't jealous, I never had you so I could never lose you, right, but in the end I did, didn't I? I can’t get out of this one, Jim, you can’t get me out, this bullet lodged in my chest, covered with your name, and I will turn myself into a gun, because it’s all I have, because I’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own.

~~Seb Moriarty~~

Sebastian Moran

 

Found in an empty apartment, on an armchair:

 

Are we really like that? Lunatics doing grocery shopping?

  
You did say you’re not a psychopath and I do say I don’t need counselling anymore, but those are self-implied diagnoses. I don’t want to think about sergeant Donovan more than I have, but she said once, she said “One day we’ll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.” If you were Moriarty, and he was you.. I don’t know Sherlock. I’m losing it again. Moran is dead. We found him yesterday in a hotel room, his brain all over the wall. You know what he was doing? He was smiling Sherlock, half of his teeth were blown out due to the impact, but he was bloody smiling. No other prints in the room except for his, no other prints on the weapon. I was the first one to notice the note and I hid it in my pocket working on an instinct. Accusing a dead man of your own murder, especially after you’re found with your own gun in your hand and your own brain lovely decorating a room, sounds more than a bit crazy, but is the accused really dead? We were all at your funeral. The coffin was sealed, the earth was thrown upon it, Greg had to excuse himself so he could go cry in private. Did you know that? Did you know that a man whose first name you never bothered to learn had to excuse himself from your funeral so he could cry? That Ms Hudson was there, but only after I gave her a sedative? That Donovan came to me and offered me a hand, and that Anderson, fucking Anderson wasn’t able to look me in the eye? Molly didn’t even come; she only sent flowers and a card that read “I’m so sorry John”. Your brother read from the Bible, and your mother was the first one to leave. They all treated me like I was your widow, and I hated it. I hated you. I kept thinking about that time when Irene Adler asked me if I was jealous of her for flirting with you, and how I yelled about not being gay to anyone who wanted to listen, but it was an empty warehouse, only three of us in, and now I realise what she meant by saying “and look at us both”. I was lost, then I was found. I am lost once again. Three years. Three fucking years, you bloody idiot. I got married you know? Kept turning around while waiting in front of the altar, and everybody thought I was expecting the bride, but no, I was expecting you. I said I do and saw your bloody face, I put a ring on her finger and I felt your wrist with no pulse. I had nothing, I was drowning in the London time, that fucker got it right – after all that sand we forgot how to swim. But you saved me, pulled me to the dry land. For what? To throw me right back in? Are you alive Sherlock? Am I just crazy? Please be alive. Sometimes I hope I am. Craziness can be cured with therapy and medication, but ~~love~~ hope is indestructible. At least my ~~love~~ hope in you. Come back. Come back home. ~~Come back home to me.~~                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

J.H.W.

  
P.S. - he brought me a shot of scotch, said I looked like I needed it, saluted me on his way out

 

Found in a dead man’s pocket:

You know Seb. You understand.

 ~~Jim~~  
James Moriarty

 

Found in a drawer, under the loaded gun:

I’m sorry.

S.H.

**Author's Note:**

> Since I’m deeply in love, but also aggressively ignoring Moffat’s version of Irene Adler, she’s *spoiler alert* dead here, and also rather than exposing him as a killer, Sherlock is *spoiler alert* killing Seb alone, and Seb knows it. Somehow inspired by Richard Siken Wishbone, hence the title (the last sentence of Seb's note is actually a verse from it) and by wonderful works of gyzym and Postcard, you should go check everything they ever wrote, go, go go (they don't know I exist, I'm a creepy stalker, yay).  
> Yeah, this is what I do when I can't sleep. (And by that I mean I write, not creepy stalk. Well actually..)
> 
> also - I would be lost without my grammar nazi beta B, you are, as always, the best :*


End file.
